The Adventurers

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  For a moment, Elizabeth, speechless with anger, thought that Philip was going to rebel, but Juliet had already moved away with mute obedience behind her patroness. One glance of abject apology for Sonia, and he turned to follow. But Sonia had hardly noticed the scene, nor did she see the curious glances of the people who had been able to hear and understand. ‘The French have got him,’ she whispered frantically. ‘What shall we do, Elizabeth?’

  ‘Why, nothing. Talk, laugh, if you can. Do you not see that now, more than ever, it must seem that we know nothing. Ah, thank God, there at last is Mme de Morne.’ However aware of Sonia’s anguish, and anxious herself on Charles’ account, she had not been blind to the results of Lady Elinor’s brutal snub. A rustle of whispers was working its way outwards through the crowd from where they stood, the target of all eyes. She was pale, she knew, but with anger. Sonia was white and shaking and she must be grateful that this would be misinterpreted as arising from Lady Elinor’s insult. Her steadying hand on Sonia’s, she moved forward to meet Mme de Morne, the crowd falling away almost, she thought angrily, as if they were lepers. Well, socially, perhaps they were.

  Mme de Morne apologised, somewhat incoherently, for her lateness, visibly trying, all the time, to make out what was going on. But the signal had been given for the audience to take their seats; the Allied sovereigns were due to appear in a few moments; there was no chance to talk as they returned to their box. Half seeing, Elizabeth gazed out at the theatre, now crowded to capacity, the glitter of jewels everywhere, the scent of the white lilies worn and carried by the ladies heavy in the air. The band had struck up, but the music of ‘Vive Henri IV’ was drowned by wave upon wave of applause as the Czar and the King of Prussia entered the imperial box. Even through the turmoil of her feelings she had time to think, It’s hardly decent. Covertly glancing sideways, she saw that very much the same thing must have occurred to Mme de Morne. Here, only a week or so ago, the applause was for the Empress Marie Louise.

  Afterwards, she could never remember what the opera had been, but she rather thought that it was, of all things, Oedipe. Certainly she remembered the wave of cheering that stopped the performance every time the singers’ words could possibly be stretched into a reference to current events. But she was too anxious even to be nauseated by this. Sonia, beside her, sat like an automaton, her eyes fixed, unseeing, on a point somewhere above the white garlands that decorated the opposite boxes. When the great velvet curtains swept to the stage at the end of the first act and the audience began to stir in its seats, Elizabeth touched her shoulder gently. ‘My love, remember.’

  ‘I am remembering. What else have I to do?’ But she made a gallant effort to pull herself together and reply to Mme de Morne’s comments on the audience and, as a secondary concern, the performance.

  As she talked, Mme de Morne was patting her elaborate coiffure into place. ‘We shall be thronged with company in a moment,’ she said. And indeed Elizabeth could see that already the gentlemen in the various boxes were on the move, while the ladies stayed in place and held court where they sat. She wondered if Mme de Morne would prove right. Should she explain to her what had happened before she arrived? But of course, she was being absurd. Lady Elinor’s considered and public insult might have finished her and Sonia so far as English society was concerned, but this was France.

  Though it hardly seemed so, she thought wryly a moment later, as a little crowd of Russian and Austrian officers entered the box, to be greeted with what struck her as excessive enthusiasm by their hostess. In the general exchange of greetings, she managed a moment’s coherent thought. Charles might be dead by now. And Denbigh? Why had she let herself enjoy that fantastic moment of hope after Lady Elinor’s visit? Well, at least the delusion had not lasted long. It was over now. Only—hopelessness seemed so much worse after that brief spurt of hope. Well—what now? Almost as a distraction she made herself face the forbidding future. Italy, maybe? Mr Fessingham would give Sonia a pension. They would live the life of the discredited at—Naples, perhaps. And then, with remorse, Poor Sonia, it’s worse for her than for me. She had more hope; her despair must be even greater. She pressed Sonia’s hand, which had lain passively in hers all this time, only to feel it turn, suddenly, into a live thing.

  ‘Look,’ said Sonia.

  Charles Vincent and Denbigh were standing in the doorway of the box. ‘Come.’ Sonia’s hand on Elizabeth’s was insistent, they moved together to join the two men in the crowded corridor outside. ‘You’re not dead.’ Sonia had eyes only for Charles.

  ‘Far from it,’ Elizabeth heard him say, then forgot all about them. Denbigh had taken her hand, had contrived, somehow, to establish her in an alcove, was standing tall above her, looking down with eyes that said—what? ‘Well, Elizabeth?’ Irrelevantly, absurdly, she found herself thinking, How well he looks tonight.

  ‘Lord Denbigh.’ She had been trying, quite in vain, to withdraw her hand from his. ‘You should not be here.’

  ‘No? Why not, pray?’

  ‘Because—you will not have heard.’ This was almost impossibly hard. ‘Lady Elinor—’

  ‘Of course. I have heard. Philip told me; I’ll say that for him. He tells one things. That is—partly—why I am here. It is lucky for Elinor that I have such cause to be grateful to her.’

  ‘Grateful?’ In that case, why, indeed, was he here?

  ‘Yes, grateful. She told me, this afternoon, that you promised her, if I proposed to you again, to accept me.’ His voice changed; around them, conversation buzzed in three languages. ‘Elizabeth, I’ve been all kinds of fool. When I asked you before, I really believe you thought I did it from a sense of duty. But you must know I’ve always loved you. Even when I thought you dead, I could not forget you. When I found you alive, I tried. I’ll not pretend otherwise. The time for pretence between us is past; from now on all is to be clear and open. And of course, I was angry, furious to think you had forgotten me and married. I never forgot. But I would not let myself admit I remembered. When our paths crossed again at Châtillon I made myself keep away from you. Remember, I had a position to maintain.’

  ‘Yes’—dryly—‘you told me once my situation was such that you felt unable to visit me.’

  ‘And you took it as a slur on your character? Oh, my darling, when I realised that afterwards I could gladly have shot myself. What I meant, of course, was Charles Vincent’s hare-brained entanglements. How could I, representing Government as I did, visit the house of a known spy? But even then that was not the real reason. I knew that if I saw you, I was lost. And so it proved; that blow on the head was the luckiest thing that ever happened to me. There’s never been another woman in my life, you know. You’re everything I want: wife, companion, friend. We’d have been happy in America, if we had only got there, years ago but, Elizabeth, I think we will be happier still in England. I have—I suppose I did not understand then—there are obligations connected with rank. You will help me face them.’

  ‘But’—she had given up the effort to free her hands, but raised great pleading eyes to his—‘that’s just it. Lady Elinor’s right. You can’t marry me; your career, your position…’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. Look, Elizabeth’—the blue eyes held hers captive—‘I’d marry you out of Bridewell if it was necessary. You’ve often talked of my pride: well, you’re right: I am proud enough to know that my wife will be above comment because she is my wife. You’re laughing—’

  ‘I was thinking how little you’ve changed—and how much. I used to be able to talk you round.’

  ‘And so you still can—when my mind’s not made up.’

  ‘But you forget, Giles’—how naturally she found herself using his first name—‘I have a mind too, and it tells me I can’t do this to you. Oh, perhaps you mean it now, but, think a little—suppose the time should come when you realised your sister had been right.’

  ‘It never will. It’s no use, Elizabeth. I’ve turned your position: you might as well yield gra
cefully. The only argument I would accept from you would be that you do not love me—and, God bless her, I’ve got my sister’s word for that. You promised her, you know, that you’d have me if I asked you again. Well?’

  ‘Giles, it’s not fair: she made me angry: I should not have said it.’

  ‘All’s fair in love and war. So come, my love, yield gracefully, since yield you must. Your secret’s out: you love me too.’ And then, his eyes still laughing down at her, he raised his voice so that it caused a little hush in the crowded corridor. ‘Miss Barrymore,’ formally, ‘will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  How long had it been since they had exchanged one of these looks of complete understanding? She was half aware of silence around them, or curious glances. How little they mattered. Nothing mattered, but the hand that held hers, the eyes that looked down so commandingly into her own. ‘Lord Denbigh’—she kept it as formal as he had—‘you do me too much honour.’

  ‘It would be impossible.’ And then, as a little buzz of talk broke out again round them, ‘I warn you, Liz, look at me like that for one moment more and I kiss you, here and now.’

  Anything to break the tension that stretched almost unbearably between them. ‘Since when did you have leave to call me Liz?’

  ‘Since I had leave to marry you. I learned it from Miss von Hugel, of course.’ He looked around. ‘Has she had a very bad half-hour? We had to arrest Vincent, for his own safety. You see it did not last long. But where is he?’

  ‘The Czar has sent for him.’ Sonia’s eyes were shining, her face flushed. Seeing the change five minutes had made in her, Elizabeth was not aware of the similar change in herself.

  ‘The Czar? To thank him? Good. Fessingham thought it right he should be told. I suppose he has gone with him. Well, in that case perhaps I may have the honour of joining you two in your box for the next act. You are to congratulate me, Miss von Hugel.’

  ‘What? Not really?’ She laughed and shook her curls at him. ‘And about time too, my lord. I was beginning to have visions of nursing my poor Liz through a decline.’

  ‘What a flattering thought. Elizabeth, have you really been pining for my sake?’

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’ve merely been distracted by the responsibility of Sonia and Charles. You can’t marry too soon for me, my love.’

  ‘Nor for me,’ said Sonia. ‘But come, the orchestra is striking up. Should we not return to our places?’

  It was surprising how easily they made their way through the crowd with Denbigh’s tall figure to clear the way. Back in the auditorium, all their eyes turned inevitably to the imperial box, where they could see Vincent’s slight, elegant figure bent deferentially towards the Czar, who was talking earnestly to him.

  ‘You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up at the Russian court,’ said Denbigh teasingly to Sonia.

  ‘I’m so happy,’ she said. ‘Charles always wanted—oh, my God!’

  It had happened so fast. Charles, standing behind the Czar, and looking out into the house had looked up, had paused in what he was saying and thrown himself in front of the Czar, At the same moment, a shot had rung out, from somewhere in the gallery above and he had fallen out of their sight.

  Pandemonium in the theatre. Denbigh had a hand on each of their shoulders. ‘Quietly,’ he said. ‘It may not be so bad as we think. Stay here. Promise not to move.’

  ‘Of course.’ Elizabeth’s arms were round Sonia who was crying, with a child’s abandon, on her shoulder. ‘But—look!’

  The Czar had come to the front of his box and now held out his hand for silence. Gradually, amazingly, the hysterical crowd hushed, ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he spoke in his easy French, ‘quietly, I beg you. There is no harm done. A madman has been arrested.’ His eyes were on a corner of the gallery that the girls could not see. ‘And the gallant gentleman who acted so fast to save my life is unharmed.’ How could it be true? And yet, there was Charles Vincent, very white, but managing a bow for the Czar and a long, anguished look in their direction. ‘And now,’ the Czar went on, ‘if you will all kindly return to your seats, the performance can continue. The incident is over—to be forgotten.’

  The orchestra struck up all over again. ‘What a man,’ said Denbigh.

  And, ‘He’s alive,’ said Sonia. ‘I must go to him.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Denbigh. ‘You’ll be sent for. Fessingham is there, remember.’

  ‘I can’t’

  ‘You must. He’s all right. You saw. It’s a miracle, but he’s alive.’

  The curtain had risen; the performance was continuing. Five endless minutes passed, while Sonia sat obediently in her place, the tears following each other silently down her cheeks. Then there came a quiet knock at the door of their box. Denbigh was gone for a minute, returned and whispered something to Mme de Morne. Then, ‘Your farewells,’ he whispered to Elizabeth. ‘Quietly.’

  Mme de Morne kissed them both, whispered an oddly final farewell. Then they were outside in the corridor, where lights burned low. ‘How is he?’ asked Sonia.

  ‘None the worse.’ Denbigh had been talking rapidly to the Russian who had fetched them. ‘Shaken; nothing else. They’re waiting for us in my carriage.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Sonia. ‘What are we waiting for?’ The empty foyer echoed oddly to her voice. Their footsteps sounded loud out of proportion as they hurried down the marble stair.

  Fessingham was waiting for them at the main door of the theatre, two Cossacks of the Czar’s guard beside him. ‘It’s all right,’ he told Sonia. ‘You saved his life.’

  ‘I? What can you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ He had taken her arm and was guiding her towards the carriage that stood outside, also guarded by Cossacks.

  Denbigh and Elizabeth followed. ‘I should break it to you,’ Denbigh began, but Sonia’s anxious voice drowned his. ‘Charles.’ She was up the carriage step in a bound. ‘Are you really unhurt?’

  His face showed very white in the uncertain light, but he held out a reassuring hand. ‘Entirely, thanks to you.’ His arm gathered her against him as the others followed her into the carriage. ‘Your little gun saved me, Sonia. The bullet hit it.’

  ‘My God.’ She was shaking now against the comfort of his arm. ‘Charles, promise me never to be a hero again. I can’t stand it.’

  ‘Once is enough for any man.’ Fessingham’s voice came bracingly as the carriage started to move. ‘But—I’m proud of you, son Charles. We’re not doing so badly, you and I, Sonia.’

  ‘No.’ She was back in control now. ‘What a story to tell the children. I don’t believe they will tease me after all, Charles.’

  ‘They’ll never hear it.’ Fessingham spoke, surprisingly. ‘The Czar has ordained that tonight’s incident never happened.’

  ‘What?’ Sonia and Elizabeth spoke together.

  ‘Yes. He’s a powerful man, the Czar. And he’s right. It would do untold damage at this point. So—it never happened… Not that he’s not grateful, Charles. Come to Russia, he says, and he’ll prove it. And—he sent you this.’ The diamond ring caught fire from a passing flambeau. ‘He thought you might have a use for it.’

  ‘I have.’ Charles slid it on Sonia’s finger and she closed her hand to hold it in place. ‘But—can he?’ she asked.

  ‘Obliterate the incident? I expect so. You’ll see. You don’t mind, do you, son Charles?’

  ‘Mind? I should think not. I’ve been such a fool—’

  ‘Not altogether,’ said his father, and Sonia laughed a little, contentedly, between them.

  Denbigh and Elizabeth had sat silently, facing them, content just to be together. Now Elizabeth leaned forward to look out of the carriage window, and spoke for the first time. ‘I hesitate to interrupt so interesting a conversation,’ she said, ‘but surely the coachman has missed his way.’

  ‘Why, so he has.’ Sonia turned to look out of the window. ‘Where in the world are we?’

  ‘I tol
d you I had something to break to you.’ Denbigh’s voice was full of laughter. ‘You are being abducted, ladies.’

  ‘Abducted?’ asked Sonia. ‘What in the world do you mean? Should we scream and faint, Elizabeth?’

  ‘I would much rather ask for an explanation.’

  ‘That’s my girl.’ Happiness gave warm overtones to Denbigh’s voice. ‘And an explanation you shall have. We thought it best, Fessingham and I, that young Vincent—or rather Fessingham, as we must get used to calling him—should leave for England without delay. The Czar’s ukase is a powerful thing, but I doubt if it can prevent his erstwhile friends coming to certain conclusions in the morning. It will be best if he is well on his way to Calais before they can act on them.’

  ‘Not without me,’ said Sonia.

  ‘Exactly. That’s what we thought you’d say. And as a matter of fact, it makes sense. A party will be the best possible protection for him—and, we must face it, he is in considerable need of protection. He has done a great service to the Allies tonight. I do not like to think what would have happened if that bullet had found its mark. But he has made himself a band of enemies who will stop at nothing.’

  ‘You mean—even afterwards?’ Sonia’s voice shook.

  ‘That’s what we are afraid of, his father and I. He involved himself, you know, with a very powerful secret society. Their reach is as long as their memory.’

  ‘But what are you going to do?’ Panic in Sonia’s voice now.

  ‘Listen, child, and I’ll tell you.’ This was Fessingham, speaking with calm authority. ‘He’s going to disappear. There’ll be a story, in the morning, that his body has been taken out of the Seine. And there’s an end of Charles Vincent. Meanwhile, you two ladies are going to leave Paris, with Denbigh and me—and my son.’

  ‘Charles?’

  ‘Exactly. There are some advantages to my profession. I have his papers all ready under his real name. Charles Vincent is dead, Sonia, forget him, and—long live Charles Fessingham.’